


The Boundless Victory

by BloodyWar2411



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Master of Death Voldemort, Mentor Voldemort (Harry Potter), Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 14:42:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21272867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodyWar2411/pseuds/BloodyWar2411
Summary: Lord Voldemort has won, but he is not content. He determines to go back in time and do it all again - to gain the victory he deserves rather than the one life handed him - and this time, he won't be alone.





	The Boundless Victory

When Lord Voldemort finally killed Harry Potter in the Forbidden Forest, the sweet taste of victory was immediately soured by the knowledge of defeat.

Harry Potter, freshly dead on the ground, had defeated him.

Some would claim it was Dumbledore's doing. They would say the old fool knew Harry Potter was Lord Voldemort's horcrux and that by sending them to kill each other, he was orchestrating a win-win scenario. They might even be right.

What Lord Voldemort knew could not be attributed to Dumbledore was Harry Potter's compassion, and in that, Lord Voldemort's defeat. For Harry Potter's capacity for empathy was greater than most (Lord Voldemort included) could imagine.

When Harry Potter saw a horcrux, he didn't just see Lord Voldemort's soul, but the life lost to create it. He saw death and destruction, and he felt remorse the likes of which Lord Voldemort was no longer capable of comprehending. Harry Potter destroyed the Horcruxes and, as the body containing the soul of Tom Riddle, reabsorbed the soul fragments. Then, as the final horcrux, he dropped his wand and awaited the _Avada Kedavra_ he'd been avoiding for sixteen years. Lord Voldemort, of course, delivered.

When Harry Potter died, Lord Voldemort became whole once more.

That was when Lord Voldemort learned the truth: Harry Potter _knew._ Knew he was a horcrux. Knew he was fixing Lord Voldemort's soul with every destroyed artifact. Knew (or at least suspected) that Lord Voldemort's soul was leeching his magic to stay intact. Knew he was walking to his death.

Still, he came. Wand at his side in a loose grip, head held high despite the obvious end fast-approaching.

"You'll never know love or friendship." He had said. "I feel sorry for you."

And for the first time in Lord Voldemort's life, he knew for a fact the words were sincere. For Harry Potter had not carried seven-eighths of Lord Voldemort's soul out of loyalty or hatred, but out of compassion. He had felt the resounding emotions of Lord Voldemort's soul shards_ (the hatred, the fear, the humiliation),_ and saw not only who Lord Voldemort had become, but what he had been.

By walking into the forest, Harry Potter had been giving himself not to Death, but to Lord Voldemort.

And Lord Voldemort received him.

The rest of Lord Voldemort's soul told the story of Harry Potter's life, and Lord Voldemort listened. He learned of the muggles and their abuse. He learned of the wizarding world which praised Harry Potter as a savior only to later turn their backs. He learned of the isolation and humiliation Harry Potter had nearly drowned in, even as he fought to save those drowning him. He also learned of the kindness; the loyalty; the devotion, and how Harry Potter was willing to offer them to anyone who would accept him as family.

It was foolish, and it left Harry Potter with nothing but allies who were more loyal to their cause than to him.

Yet when Harry Potter entered the forest, he didn't do it for the Light, the Dark, or the war. He did it for himself; to write his own ending instead of being forced to play yet another role. Harry Potter had accepted that the Light no longer had a leader, and he offered himself instead to Lord Voldemort. _"Just one more death, and this can end."_ he had told himself.

But he was wrong.

His hopes that Lord Voldemort's fully healed soul would allow him to become once more what he was in his youth_ (studious, charismatic, political)_ were in vain. A man can never again be what he was before.

He can, however, shift into something new.

For with his soul came his sanity, and Lord Voldemort was appalled by the senseless loss of wizarding life he had instigated. Was the major problem with Grindelwald's strategy not that he had attacked all opposing sides instead of converting them for future use? Had Lord Voldemort not sworn to learn from the mistakes of others as he created his empire?

Yet he had forgotten, and he was brought back from the brink not by one of his followers, but a lion raised to be a lamb.

Harry Potter, who was powerful enough to house not one, but two souls in his body. Harry Potter, who was smart enough to realize he could never leave this war alive. Harry Potter, who was cunning enough to outwit both Dumbledore and Lord Voldemort (though Lord Voldemort had been severely handicapped by insanity) while diligently fighting for his own cause. Harry Potter, whose devotion was gentle and all-consuming in a way Lord Voldemort had never before experienced.

Harry Potter, who was his. Harry Potter, who _belonged_ to Lord Voldemort, and yet Lord Voldemort _could not have him_. Harry Potter's life was a sacrifice meant for a God, yet Lord Voldemort had only received him when he ceased to be of use.

It was _infuriating._

The war had ended quickly after Harry Potter had fallen, but Lord Voldemort did not care. This was not the ending he wanted. After all he had been through – all he had done – he _deserved_ Harry Potter.

And he would have him.

The entire world belonged to Lord Voldemort, but three things especially so: The Elder Wand, which he had won from Dumbledore; The Resurrection Stone, which was his by right of blood; and The Invisibility Cloak, which belonged to him as surely as Harry Potter, himself.

He did not allow his followers to rest or celebrate until the missing items were brought to him, and when they were, he locked himself away.

He twisted the Resurrection Stone three times in his hand and said, "Death."

For a few minutes there was nothing, and Lord Voldemort nearly sneered at himself for even considering Dumbledore's faith in the Hallows as a viable lead.

Then Death arrived.

Lord Voldemort maintained a blank expression as he watched every shadow in the room pool in front of him, barely thicker than air.

**"Tom Riddle, no longer an abomination, but a master. What is your request?"**

Lord Voldemort considered his words carefully before responding, "Is that what being the Master of Death entails? One request?"

**"One request."**

The confirmation was as bland as it was unyielding: an acknowledgement that not only would Death not be negotiating, but that it considered itself indulgent for granting a request at all. Lord Voldemort had used the tone himself, back when he, too, had been gracious enough to hear requests.

Another, lesser man, may have needed time to think about what he wanted, or how to get it in all of its facets. Lord Voldemort was not a lesser man.

"I request rebirth. My memories, my power, placed into my infant body, so that I may go about this life again."

The smoke of Death's presence shifted, but Lord Voldemort held up a hand. He was not finished.

"With my rebirth, I require a change in the timeline. Harry Potter must be born no more than two years later than myself, and he must be left at Wool's Orphanage shortly thereafter. He must be unburdened of all memories of this life."

Death flowed closer, seeming to taint all the air in the room and even the air already within Lord Voldemort's lungs. The show of power – for that was all it was – caused euphoria to bloom in Lord Voldemort's chest. He _very much_ enjoyed controlling such a powerful entity and, were he a lesser man, may have delayed his request just to bask in the feeling.

Lord Voldemort was not a lesser man.

**"You may have your rebirth: your power, your memories. Harry Potter stays here."**

"No."

The flare of Death was an echo of the Cruciatus curse: a knowledge of the pain that could easily exist quivering in his bones. Lord Voldemort paid it no mind.

**"The request is for you. No other soul."**

"Harry Potter is not another soul. He is my horcrux."

**"Your horcrux no longer."**

Part of Death plumed toward Lord Voldemort, as though to point at his now-intact soul.

"My horcrux he will be again. Whether you take a sliver of my soul and join it to him as you complete my request or I place it in him myself when we next meet matters not."

Death's stare lacked eyes but not perception.

_A technicality,_ it seemed to say.

A technicality, Lord Voldemort agreed.

**"Your soul I will pare and place within another. An abomination you will be again."** Death thickened and pervaded the air, its willowy shape barely discernable from the rest of the room.** "No more shall your soul break than what I have declared, no matter your method. An indestructible abomination, you will not become."**

Lord Voldemort did not recoil from Death's demand, as time had granted him both wisdom and patience. There were other ways to achieve immortality. Lord Voldemort would find them.

"So mote it be."

Death's figure swayed closer until it clouded around Lord Voldemort: a fog of rot.

**"So mote it be."**

The fog became darkness became water became air, and Lord Voldemort was born anew.

**(***The Boundless Victory***)**

Harry didn't remember his parents.

The people at his first orphanage told him his mother had fiery red hair and bright green eyes. They said she was pretty. They even said that she probably cared about him because she had cried when dropping him off.

That, of course, was before the fire.

When the orphanage burned down, the nice people who had met his mother burned with it. And Harry – inexplicably, unforgivably – had survived. He was the only one that survived. Curled on the floor in the middle of the flames, he left without a scratch.

They called him a miracle child. Said he was blessed by God.

Then his new orphanage flooded. The pipes burst, spraying hundreds of gallons of sewage throughout the building. It ruined everything and displaced everyone, with Harry being the only person to avoid falling ill from the mess. The nursemaid called him strong and healthy, but the way she said it made Harry think that might not be a good thing.

The next orphanage was less nice, with fewer resources and more mouths to feed, but Harry tried to remain optimistic. He smiled and pretended not to notice the way the other orphans sneered. Parents were the ones that mattered, not other kids, and parents liked it when he _smiled._

It wasn't until the matron got sick that his smile wavered, and even then, he looked happy. Adoptable. Then the sickness spread (an epidemic; a _plague),_ and Harry was again left untouched. Trapped inside the quarantine zone, Harry watched the others perish: slow and dirty and decaying.

When he was finally rescued from the pile of dead, his smile had vanished.

It was harder to find an orphanage that would take him after that. They moved him to a whole new city, but even that wasn't far enough to escape the rumors. The whispers. The hatred. The kids and adults both blamed him for the Bad Things, and Harry was terrified they might be right. Because as much as Harry didn't mean to make things happen, they _did_ happen.

Rocks that stopped mid-air when the other kids tried to stone him. His hair growing back the day after his bullies tore out handfuls for fun._ The snakes._

Even Harry knew talking to snakes was unnatural, but he couldn't help it. They were nice. Or at least they weren't mean. The snakes thought Harry being able to understand them made him special, and Harry could hardly remember a time when a human had said something so kind.

When the adults found out, they called the priests, and Harry experienced his first exorcism. No food, no water, tied to a table so tight that his wrists and ankles bled. He struggled and begged and cried, but they wouldn't stop their chanting. They circled him, splashed him, and called him a demon until the furniture stopped flinging itself around the room. Then they waited.

The trip back to the orphanage was a blur, but Harry would never forget the looks they gave him when he returned. Hatred. Suspicion. _Fear._ And then there were rats.

Rats in the food pantry. Rats in the beds. Rats in the walls. They bit freely, and the wounds got infected more often than not. Harry was scared of the rats – of the noises they made and their awful, awful teeth – but he was more scared of the way they avoided him. Like he really did have something to do with the infestation.

The next orphanage was Catholic. Father Wright had heard of Harry's curse and sought him out for cleansing. Harry was kept alone in a room so as not to infect the other children, and only Father Wright was allowed to visit.

Harry very quickly learned that he did not like Father Wright. The man was stern and unforgiving, never trusting Harry's innocence and always punishing Harry's "lies." If Harry cried, the punishment doubled.

_"Do not use a child's innocence against me, Demon."_ He would say. _"It will not work."_

That orphanage fell victim to a great storm with winds that could toss vehicles and lightning that struck true. It was the only house to face irreparable damages and the fatalities were staggering. Harry, of course, sat alone in his room. Safe.

It was then that he earned his nickname. Harry wished he could remain ignorant. He wished he could tune the other children's jeers out like they tuned out his cries, but he had always been vulnerable to rejection.

As much as he had gotten used to certain nicknames _(freak, monster, demon),_ he was only five and starved for love, making it practically impossible not to take the other kids' words to heart. When they said his parents didn't want him, he could cling to how sad his mom had been when dropping him off. When they said he was cursed – that everyone around him died – he had no defense.

And then the sixth orphanage fell apart. Literally. He heard adults speculating over termite damage, but he didn't understand what that meant, and it was easily drown out by the other children's cruel taunts.

_Harry Potter: The Boy Who Lived._

Just thinking about the terrible title made Harry's stomach swirl uneasily, and as he stood outside of his seventh orphanage in six years, he wondered if there was any way to overcome it. He didn't want to be The Boy Who Lived. He wanted to be Harry. Just Harry.

But as a tall adult grabbed his arm and marched him under the intimidating _Wool's Orphanage_ sign and Harry saw familiar orphans whispering to unfamiliar ones, he felt very suddenly sure that would never happen.

The only child not whispering with others looked out of place. He stood tall and proud in a way that automatically drew Harry's attention, and time stuttered as they made eye contact.

The boy was… otherworldly. More than his posture, the boy looked powerful in a way no child should be. His very presence – intelligent brown eyes, perfectly styled brown hair, hand-me-down clothes fitted to him like they'd been tailored – had Harry's breath hitching in his chest.

Then two priests blocked his view, and he saw his new matron motioning them all inside. Harry backed up, the last exorcism still fresh in his mind, and one of the men grabbed his arm. He yelled unintelligibly, wishing nothing more than for them to go away, then immediately regretted it as the man holding onto Harry was flung across the yard.

The following silence was suffocating, broken only when desperate apologies poured from Harry's lips. His sincerity, of course, meant nothing as the men simply picked him up. He kicked and screamed as hard as he could, well aware of what was coming, but it was for naught. Strange occurrences aside, Harry was still only six, and small for his age, at that.

They carried him inside.

**(***The Boundless Victory***)**

Lord Voldemort could admit that he should have been more specific when wording his deal with Death. "Shortly thereafter" to a human, after all, was vastly different than "shortly thereafter" to an immortal.

That being said, Lord Voldemort was not disappointed when he heard whispers of The Boy Who Lived, and a certain pride came from knowing that they would both keep their appellations.

Lord Voldemort tracked Harry Potter's progress from orphanage to orphanage, positive that Death's magic would continue to force the boy to move until he ended up at Wool's, but that knowledge hardly prepared him for Harry Potter's arrival.

Small with wild hair and _Avada Kedavra_ green eyes, the boy was a beast. Strong accidental magic attested to his power, and Lord Voldemort felt a flush of adrenaline at the thought of using it for his own gain.

That adrenaline was quickly overtaken by fury as muggles _dared_ to touch what belonged to Lord Voldemort, but he forced himself not to act. Harry Potter's first impression of Lord Voldemort needed to be one of love and acceptance, not power and violence. So, Lord Voldemort waited.

_Patiently._

He waited in the room he shared with twelve muggle children, listening to Harry Potter scream through thin walls. He felt Harry Potter's magic lash out, aggressively protective yet refreshingly light, like the wind before a storm. Lord Voldemort breathed it in, a new drug to which he couldn't wait to get addicted.

Two days passed before Harry Potter was released from his exorcism, and Lord Voldemort placed muggle repellant charms around their room as he waited longer still for his horcrux to arrive.

When Harry Potter finally, _finally_ entered the room, his eyes were rimmed red and he hugged his arms _(his wrists; his still-raw rope burns)_ to his chest. He showed no recognition for Lord Voldemort, but the hurt in his eyes hardened into a familiar fierceness.

Lord Voldemort admired the defiance for half a moment before taking advantage of that brave stare and delving gently into Harry Potter's mind.

He saw the other orphanages. The deaths. The destruction. He saw the way the muggles feared Harry Potter and the way Harry Potter feared himself. He saw desperation and loneliness, and he saw Harry Potter choosing to be beaten half to death over giving his attackers access to a snake _(it was nice to him; called him special)._ He saw Harry Potter letting the snake go, well-aware that he would not always be able to protect the thing, and the nights of tears that followed.

Lord Voldemort also saw the missing sliver of his soul: small but thriving in the vastness of Harry Potter's magic. The _love_ of Harry Potter's soul. And what did it say of Harry Potter that he welcomed Lord Voldemort's soul with so much vigor that the invading shard was nearly better nourished than the whole?

"Stay away from me. I'll—I'll curse you. I will!"

Lord Voldemort moved to the forefront of Harry Potter's mind and watched as the boy prayed for Lord Voldemort to believe him. Harry Potter was broken and scared. He did not know if he could survive another beating today.

Amusement tugged at Lord Voldemort's lips as he responded, "Believe me, Harry Potter. In a battle of curses, you would lose."

Lord Voldemort closed the door with a flick of his will and released the tight hold on his magic. Harry Potter's stuttering thoughts came second to the crashing wave of emotions_ (awe, fear, want, pleasure, desperation),_ and Lord Voldemort allowed the child a few moments of inner conflict before stepping forward.

"My name is Tom Riddle, and you, Harry Potter, are mine."

"I-I don't belong to anybody!"

"Don't you, child?" Lord Voldemort took another step forward, and Harry Potter was too brave to step back. "Have you not wondered why death seems to follow you wherever you go?"

_Avada Kedavra_ green eyes widened as Lord Voldemort directly addressed the question that plagued Harry Potter's every waking moment, and Lord Voldemort watched the boy's thoughts spiral around the need to know. It was Harry Potter who closed the distance between them.

He looked diffidently up through his lashes and quietly asked, "Do you really know?"

"I do."

"Is it…" Harry Potter took a shaky breath. "Is it going to happen again?"

"No. Death brought you to me, and I received you. Its duty is done."

"I—This was for you?"

"For us." Lord Voldemort reached forward to move Harry Potter's fringe from the lightning bolt shaped scar still adorning his forehead. "Give yourself to me, and you shall never be alone again. I will teach you magic, protect you, _care_ for you, and you shall want for nothing."

Lord Voldemort was unsurprised to see Harry Potter's thoughts part around worldly promises to instead latch onto the idea of camaraderie. To not be alone. To be _loved._

Harry Potter would do anything.

And Lord Voldemort, of course, would take advantage.

**(***The Boundless Victory***)**

Harry was a wizard.

Tom was a wizard, too, though he was much, much better than Harry. He could make bullies go away with a single look, and he got Mrs. Cole to give Harry and Tom their own room! It was up on the top floor, and despite the loose wood that should have made it a drafty attic, it was always the perfect temperature. He also used something called transfiguration to turn their rickety cots into a soft, comfy bed and their thin, scratchy blankets into a thick, fluffy comforter that was always warm. Tom promised to teach Harry how to do these things, too, but it would take time.

First, Harry had to learn how to read. This went fairly smoothly, as Tom was a patient teacher who always anticipated Harry's needs to the point of answering questions before Harry could ask them. Harry much preferred Tom teaching him things to reading the words on paper (maybe because Tom's voice was soothing or maybe because he was a better teacher than whoever wrote the books), but Tom said reading was an important skill, so Harry learned.

Tom also insisted Harry meditate. He said it was important for both wandless magic and being able to protect the mind, but Harry just thought it was boring. At least, the sitting and being quiet part was boring. The after part – the moment Tom declared them finished and told Harry 'good job' – was exhilarating. Being praised by someone as wonderful and smart and talented as Tom made all the hours of sitting still worthwhile.

And when they would crawl into their large, comfy bed at night, Tom didn't mind the way Harry curled close. He would move a hand from his book (Harry had no idea where he got these books or where they went when he finished) and pet Harry's hair while Harry fell asleep. Tom would often be out of bed by the time Harry woke up, but he was always nearby.

It wasn't until winter rolled around and the year came to a close that Harry learned of Tom's birthday, and it was with more interest than strictly warranted that he asked how old Tom was. Tom smiled like Harry had told a joke and said, "Eight."

"You don't act like you're eight. You act like an adult."

"Oh?"

Harry nodded and leaned into Tom's side. He could sound out some of the words in the book Tom was reading, but most of them were too long.

"You talk like one, too. And you know stuff other kids don't know."

"Other children aren't wizards."

"Yeah, but…" Harry pursed his lips, not wanting to sound stupid but feeling like it was the truth, "I bet other magic kids don't know as much as you, either."

Tom hummed noncommittally.

Harry continued, "I don't think I'll ever know as much as you do. Like, I bet I could read all the books in the world and not know as much."

"You don't have the attention span to read that many books regardless."

Harry pouted and snuggled closer.

"I could. If you asked me to, I could."

Tom, for the first time in over an hour, turned from the book to give his attention to Harry.

"Yes. I suppose you could."

He lifted a hand to brush Harry's fringe away from his scar, and Harry stayed still to let him look as long as he pleased.

"How come you like my scar so much?"

Tom's thumb traced the scar, and Harry felt a pleasant tingle that had him relaxing further.

"Do you really want to know?"

Tom's question was so quiet that Harry thought he might have imagined it.

Harry started to nod before remembering to stay still for Tom and instead saying, "Yeah."

"This," he pressed his thumb against Harry's scar, causing pleasure to spike from the contact, "is where my soul connects to yours."

Harry whimpered as the pressure on his scar lightened and the pleasure faded.

"Your soul?"

"That's right. You see, Harry Potter, you're more than just another wizard. You're my soul. That is why I do these things for you, and that is what makes you capable of anything."

Harry's mind stuttered over the concept without comprehension before pride swelled in his chest because souls were _important._ No one ever left their soul behind. It was better than being roommates or best friends or even wizards.

"You're my soul, too!"

Tom lifted two perfect brows, as though the thought hadn't occurred to him before, and said, "I suppose I am."

Harry grinned, bright and happy.

"I love you, Tom."

Tom hummed contemplatively and stroked Harry's scar a final time before returning to his book.

"And I, you, Harry Potter."


End file.
